A photograph is rarely just an image. Almost always, it tells a story — a story best known to its author. And when a photograph is good, it can carry part of that story to the viewer without the author having to explain it in words. Still, having the full context is always richer, and that is why, in the series “The Story of a Photograph,” the author himself describes what stood behind its creation. The photograph we focus on in this article is one of the most well-known images of Icelandic volcanoes by Filip Hrebenda, titled “Born of Fire.” But now, let us give the floor to the author himself.

Photographing active volcanoes is a challenge for every landscape photographer — and it was no different for me. Volcanic eruptions had always drawn me in, but I wanted to photograph them at the best possible moment — at their very birth. In March 2021, while the world was still shaped by pandemic restrictions, something intriguing was unfolding. In Iceland, the Fagradalsfjall volcanic system began to awaken after 6,000 years of dormancy. This was signaled by earthquakes that were intensifying in the area day by day. I knew then that this was my moment.

Traveling at that time was difficult, but after a lengthy process, I managed to obtain special permission from the authorities to travel to Iceland for work, with the purpose of documenting the possible emergence of a new volcano. And so I began searching for flights. Due to the uncertainty of the situation, flights were frequently canceled, but on the third attempt I finally made it to Iceland. Upon arrival, a mandatory week-long quarantine awaited me in Reykjavík. In the quarantine hotel, I was given a room with a view of the nearby mountains, and already on the first day, thick smoke began rising from them. That could mean only one thing — the eruption had begun. In the evening, I watched a small red glow in the distance from my window and knew that in just a few days, I would be heading toward it.

Quarantine gave me plenty of time to plan everything, and when I was finally released after a week, I was ready to set out — though not immediately. On the day I left quarantine, Iceland was gripped by harsh Nordic conditions. A snowstorm and winds exceeding 100 km/h were spreading toxic volcanic gases across the landscape, so I decided to wait one more day. It was the right decision.

The following morning, conditions had improved, although they were still demanding. Strong winds persisted, and the wind chill outside was around −15°C. That didn’t stop me. I set out toward my goal — to photograph the birth of a volcano that had lain dormant for more than 6,000 years. According to the maps, I needed to cover roughly 7 kilometers and ascend about 500 vertical meters. For someone accustomed to mountain hikes, that doesn’t sound like much. But it was far from easy. In the first days, there was of course no marked or maintained trail leading to the volcano. No one could tell you exactly which way to go or where the terrain would be most manageable. You simply saw hills in front of you, thick smoke somewhere in the distance, and you walked toward it. As is typical in Iceland, the terrain was anything but pleasant — a constant mix of mud, black sand, and sharp volcanic rocks. With every step uphill, you would slide half a step back. The route was made even more difficult by the strengthening wind, which reached speeds of around 80 km/h on the ridges.

After three hours, I reached a hill from which I finally saw the newly erupting volcanic craters for the first time. It was an astonishing sight. Four craters were spewing lava with such intensity that within just a few days they managed to flood the entire valley. Total destruction and transformation at once. Valleys were turning into hills.

Thick smoke rose from the craters, but the wind was carrying it away from me, so I decided to descend into the valley, closer to the flowing lava and one of the active craters. Toxic gases were present in the valley, which meant I had to constantly monitor the direction of the wind and move around the lava in a way that ensured it was always blowing “from behind” me. Still, I inhaled these gases a few times, which was far from pleasant.

Since the wind was coming from the east, I decided to hike around the flowing lava from that side and approach the youngest of the craters. After about an hour, I got quite close. The ground was trembling, and the air was filled with the sound of hissing craters. The smell of sulfur grew stronger and stronger. And yet, in front of me was a beauty capable of stopping time. As I looked at the horror and beauty in front of me, I thought about how small we are as humans compared to this force — how powerless we are in moments like these. It was utterly overwhelming. I stepped closer to the fresh lava, to within about a meter. I could hear it cracking, a sound similar to breaking glass. In an instant, I moved from freezing cold into intense heat.

For almost an hour, I simply stood there in awe, trying to absorb the immense and unstoppable power of nature. Then I took out my camera — it was time to make the photograph I had come for. I had to act quickly, because the lava was moving fast and I didn’t want to take greater risks. I stepped closer to a hardened section of lava and waited to see what would happen. After a few minutes, the solidified crust directly in front of me broke open, releasing fresh lava that began flowing toward me. In that moment, I pressed the shutter and ran. I climbed a nearby hill to a safer spot and turned on the camera to see what I had captured. That was the moment I realized I had photographed exactly what I had come for. This is how “Born of Fire” came into being.

In total, I stayed in the area for two weeks, during which several other photographs were created. But this one was special. It captured my first close encounter with a volcano that had slept for 6,000 years. Within it is a moment where past and present converge — the destruction of something old and the birth of something new. A transformation born of fire.

Immediately after its publication, the photograph drew attention from audiences around the world. It began receiving one award after another. In 2021, it was named Nature Photograph of the Year simultaneously in Budapest, Tokyo, Moscow, and Paris — something no photograph had ever achieved before. It was published by major international media outlets such as National Geographic, BBC, The Guardian, and The Washington Post, among others.

The first collectible fine art print of this photograph was exhibited in many locations around the world — Paris, Prague, Dubai, Budapest, Tokyo, New York, Taipei, and Oslo. The image thus became one of the most successful and widely recognized photographs of volcanic eruptions. Until recently, only a single archival fine art print of this photograph existed, and it was not for sale. However, I have recently decided to include “Born of Fire” in the Prestige Collection, meaning that five collectors will now have the opportunity to add this work to their fine art collections.